


Every Picture Tells a Story

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Series: Visual Aids [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Porn, Artist Steve Rogers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Pornographic Materials, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky worked the bag a while longer before collapsing on the floor, chest heaving, lips glistening as he licked them. This was provocation, Steve was certain. If he couldn’t get Steve to admit to his perversion, then Bucky would find a way to tease it out of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Picture Tells a Story

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Work Up a Sweat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820776) by [storiesfortravellers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers). 



> This was inspired by storiesfortravellers' Work Up a Sweat. Basically, Bucky sets up a punching bag in their apartment, provoking feelings in Steve that lead him to find some pornographic drawings -- which look quite a bit like the object of his desire. I wanted to know what happened later!

The snick of the door handle turning woke Steve up, a cough wracking his body as he shook off the fog of sleep. Bucky was home -- and his sketchpad was still open, the most recent drawings right out in plain view. He fumbled to close it fast, before Bucky came into the bedroom and saw what Steve had been drawing.

“Hey, what are you doin’ up? You oughta be sleeping,” Bucky said, strolling into the bedroom with his loping stride, already stripping off his dirty work shirt and unbuckling his belt. Steve glanced down quickly, warmth creeping up his neck into his face. A hank of Bucky’s hair had fallen across one eye, making him even more impossibly handsome.

“Just woke up,” Steve said to the bed, “when I heard you come in. I’ve been sleeping, promise. Feel a lot better, actually.” He slid the sketchpad under the covers as Bucky kicked his trousers off, threw everything in a pile. Out of the corner of his eyes, Steve watched the way Bucky’s muscles bunched and loosened, the smooth rectangular line of his torso flexing, twisting.

Bucky sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand to Steve’s forehead. “You’re clammy but cool. Fever broke?” Steve nodded. “You had me worried there for a while, this is the sickest you been in a long time.”

Of course Bucky kept track of his illnesses, knew which ones were worst. He was always so good at taking care of Steve. But his closeness, his hand against Steve’s skin... Steve’s heart ticked like a stopwatch, his head full of buzzing bees. Not safe when he’d been this ill.

“Brought you some oranges,” Bucky said. “And Mrs. Ellis offered to do the washing, since you’ve been abed so long.” Steve had been down with this nasty flu and not able to do the household chores, so they’d almost reached the end of their clean clothing. Bucky dropped his hand onto Steve’s thigh, and even through the quilts it kindled a spark in Steve’s groin.

“That’s really nice of her,” Steve said. “I hate it when I can’t do my part and you’re already working two jobs.” He sighed. “I feel awful.”

Bucky’s hand shot up to his forehead again. “You gonna puke?” he asked, and Steve huffed out a laugh. 

“No, no, I mean I feel awful for not contributing.” The laugh made him cough, though, so Bucky rubbed his back to help him tough it out. His hand was so warm, so strong, and it made Steve very, very distressed, what with him sitting there in his underwear, redolent of sweat and oil and the pomade he used on his hair.

“I ain’t complaining. Here, eat your orange.” He started the peel for Steve and then got up, went to the bureau. “Your pajamas are damp from sweating out that fever, let’s get you into some fresh ones.” He opened Steve’s drawer and said, “Damn, you’re out of almost everything. You’re gonna have to make do with your last undershirt and shorts while I hang your pajamas up to dry.” 

With sinking, icy horror, Steve realized Bucky was digging around in his underwear drawer, right where he’d hidden the postcard-picture sketches of the nude men he’d bought a few weeks ago. Why on earth hadn’t he put those somewhere else? He’d never expected Bucky to rummage around in his drawer, but it was stupid to have kept them someplace they could be discovered. Steve struggled to get out of bed, but before he could sling the covers off, Bucky froze, his back rigid, hand in midair. _He found them._

He could stuff his face into the pillow until he stopped breathing altogether, Steve thought, he could curl up in a ball and let his weak heart stall from shame. He was growing smaller and smaller. Time felt like a rubber band, stretching, stretching until it would snap back with a nasty sting. 

“Buck,” Steve said desperately instead, starting out of the bed. “Listen, I can--”

Clearing his throat, Bucky stood slowly and said casually, “I still got a few pairs of shorts left, so if we have to, you can wear mine. Course you’ll be swimming in ’em.” He turned around, his face just like before, nothing was wrong, nothing discovered. Yet there was no way that Bucky could have missed seeing those pictures -- or noticing that both of the men in them looked like him. Either Bucky was the best actor in the world, or he’d really not seen them, because he was simply holding out the shirt and shorts to Steve, his face impassive.

“Stevie, hey, Stevie, what’s going on?” Bucky said, alarmed, dropping everything and rushing to hold him up as he lost his balance, feeling like he might faint. “You’re white as a ghost, lie down now, you shouldn’t be on your feet.”

“I’m all right. Really.” But he let Bucky fold him back into bed, tuck the covers up over him again. He squinched his eyes closed. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. Bucky pressed the backs of his fingers again to Steve’s forehead, his temples. It only made Steve more feverish. The times he’d dared to dream of exactly this: Bucky almost naked on his bed, touching him with firm, smooth hands, but all he wanted now was to vanish into the air. 

“Well, let me cook up something for supper. You need to eat. You can change while I do. Finish your orange, too.” There was a thorny edge to his voice -- Steve had never heard it before. Those goddamn drawings. He’d ruined everything.

Steve did as Bucky told him and ate his orange, so bright and tart his mouth stung after days of only tea and Cream of Wheat, then changed into his last pair of shorts and an undershirt. He tugged on a sweater and his trousers, wrapped up in a blanket, and went to sit on the couch while Bucky cooked, and then Bucky brought him his dinner on a tray. It was good to sit up, good to eat solid food. As they ate, he shot darting glances at Bucky to try to catch some sign of what he must be thinking now. Well, Steve knew what Bucky was thinking: that his friend was a pervert. 

But Bucky just tucked in to his food, telling him now and again about work that day. Though Steve heard the words, they sounded far away, distorted, like a radio playing from a top-floor apartment. Bucky cleaned up afterward, insisting that Steve stay put, then took the washing to Mrs. Ellis’s place. Steve stayed on the lumpy couch, drawing on a smoothed-out paper wrapping from the greengrocer’s -- very decidedly not drawing Bucky.

Usually in the evening, if he didn’t have a date or extra work, Bucky’d hit the punching bag while Steve listened to the radio and read or drew. Steve dreaded him starting up tonight, the battle to not watch but act like things were normal. Ever since Bucky’d gone to the trouble of setting up that bag, Steve had desperately wished Bucky could afford to belong to a boxing gym, just so that Steve wouldn’t have to look at him like that, the shimmering triangle of sweat that collected along his back and his chest, the pink flush on his face as he went at it. The low dirty grunts when fists made contact with the canvas. 

When Bucky came back he wrapped up his hands, started punching. Steve stared acutely at his paper, the pencil cutting into the bumpy callus on his middle finger as he pressed so hard it hurt. 

“Anything you wanna talk about, Stevie?” Bucky asked as he punched, startling Steve so bad that the pencil flipped out of his hand and he coughed. 

“Like what?” Steve said, swallowing around ground-up glass, trying to quell the coughing.

“I don’t know. What you been reading while you been home, anything interesting you hear on the news. Just any old thing. I got the same old boring stories, day in, day out. You know you can always tell me anything.” Bucky focused on the bag while he talked.

Steve smiled up at him, putting on a face he hoped could pass for calm. He knew now that Bucky had seen the hidden pictures, he wouldn’t ask for conversation otherwise. They’d never needed to prompt each other. Bucky stopped punching, watching Steve’s face as he breathed heavily, no doubt looking for cracks in his façade. How quickly would he run away if he knew the truth? Steve would lose everything that mattered to him, just for the sake of some dirty pictures to satisfy base needs. It wasn’t worth the price. 

“Well, I’ve been laid up for a while, so no, I don’t have much to talk about. Try me again when I get back to classes.” Maybe he could salvage things if he tried to explain them away... “I’ve been doing extra life drawing assignments. Got some new reference materials.” He could tell Bucky didn’t buy it from the tilt of his mouth, the way his brows drew together. Steve knew every tic Bucky had.

Bucky worked the bag a while longer before collapsing on the floor, chest heaving, lips glistening as he licked them. This was provocation, Steve was certain. If he couldn’t get Steve to admit to his perversion, then Bucky would find a way to tease it out of him. He’d never thought of Bucky as mean, but this was a fist to the chest, and Steve supposed he deserved it.

“Got a date tomorrow night. If you’re better, I could set you up. Always more fun with you.” He ran a hand across his chest, hitching his undershirt up just enough to let Steve see the dark line of hair that trailed down beneath the waistband of his trousers. Steve wanted to drive his body against Bucky’s, press him flat and feel the muscles that rippled underneath the shimmering skin, watch his deep blue eyes go round and the rosy lips tighten with surprise. Steve had never known anything as ferocious as this desire.

“I think I should get back in bed,” Steve said. He remade his bed, shucked his trousers and sweater, and climbed in. Bucky stood up, watched him, but made no effort to help -- something telling in itself -- and then he busied himself with chores while Steve tried to sleep. There had never been a time he’d needed to lie to Bucky or keep secrets from him; Steve wished he could be cool, unruffled, not the frantic mess he was now, a bundle of nerves trying to hide the truth of himself from the one person who loved him. 

 

It remained that way for weeks. Steve had buried the pictures in one of his old sketchpads at the bottom of a box of childhood things he kept in the closet. Bucky would never look at one of his sketchbooks without permission, that at least he knew. 

Steve could draw the pictures from memory now, anyway, the lines and shadows of the men’s bodies imprinted in his mind. The only reason he’d even kept them in the drawer was to have access, a spur to fantasies indulged in only when Bucky was out on dates. There was no privacy here, especially not for such things as that, but then they’d never needed privacy before...before Steve had known he wanted something different from his friend.

No, the pictures weren’t necessary anymore, even for use as reference; he could draw Bucky a thousand different ways and he didn’t need to imagine him as one of those naked men -- the one with his hand on himself, or the one bent over, waiting to be penetrated.

Steve pretended that Bucky’s questions weren’t about the drawings, weren’t directed at him, those variations on “Is there anything you want to tell me?” dropped casually into conversation but still as gently bruising as a pulled punch. Bucky thought it would wear Steve down, he’d finally admit to the shame of the pictures and his desires, and then Bucky could deck him and leave. He would have permission to walk away.

Steve grew restless, often sleepless, so did Bucky, tension like frost creeping slowly inward from the edges of the window. There were no more nights where Bucky sat on the edge of Steve’s bed and rubbed circles on his back to ease his lungs, no more humming like a lullaby when Steve couldn’t sleep. But Steve wouldn’t let himself be defeated; he was too stubborn to lose this friendship for the sake of something he wanted that wasn’t even normal. People got over these urges, he knew that. And if he couldn’t, well, there was the hotel and the bars and the alleys and he knew what went on there. 

There was nothing to tell Bucky, nothing wrong, nothing in Steve’s life of interest. And yet the questions always lingered, even when Steve invented all manner of stories to tell about classes and his work.

Bucky would listen to those stories, head tilted, a smile as soft as morning on his lips. But waiting coiled inside him, as if he could will Steve’s confession out of him -- though Bucky couldn’t absolve him of this sin. With winter the two of them were trapped inside each other’s spaces, something welcome before but now prickly and fraught. Maybe he could have fixed it if he just said, yes, Buck, the pictures are mine because I want to look at men, especially men who look like you. Maybe if he was less of a coward.

For Christmas, Bucky gave him artist’s supplies Steve could not afford himself -- oils and canvasses and laid paper and pens -- and told him he wanted Steve to paint again, offering to pose for him if he needed a subject. Steve thanked him profusely for the gifts, avoided telling Bucky he’d love nothing more than to draw him. Bucky fixed him with a look, said, “You got much nicer models, I guess, in classes, huh? Pretty girls, I bet, and that’s a lot better than drawing my ugly mug.” Steve had laughed for the first time in weeks, because they both knew Bucky knew how gorgeous he was.

Bucky professed to love the elegant tie and the records that Steve gave him, and they had Christmas dinner with Bucky’s family, always a raucous affair, but it helped Steve keep his mind off Bucky’s offer to pose, mostly -- he still found his mind drifting to it occasionally, thinking of Bucky in...those positions. Watching the tug of his lips when he smiled, or the sapphire flash in his eyes, or the way his expressive hands dodged and weaved as he spoke.

Back at home that night, getting ready for bed, Bucky turned to him and pushed Steve’s hair off his forehead the way he used to. “I miss my best friend, Stevie,” he said with a blue smile, then drew himself tight together as Steve pulled away from him. “We don’t hardly ever talk anymore, you know?”

“We talk all the time,” Steve said, and climbed into bed. Usually Bucky would sit down next to him if he was sad, rub his arm or play with his hair, but those days were gone, and Bucky’s face was a study of mourning, sadness seeped into the hollow at the base of his throat and the tremble of his lower lip, the dip of his shoulders. “Every day.”

“Ah, not like we used to,” Bucky said, and climbed into his own bed. “About real things.” He sighed, his hand splayed out on the covers, looking at his fingers flexing back and forth, back and forth. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk about with me? You know you can tell me anything.”

Steve rolled over on his side, turned to face the wall, tracing the wedge of light in front of him. “It’s fine, Buck. Everything’s fine.” Shame crawled through his belly at the way his selfish desires had hurt his friend, his heart played leapfrog in his chest. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and waited for Bucky to turn out the light.

 

After the new year, Bucky spent less and less time in the apartment, easing Steve’s anxiety a tiny bit -- out of sight, out of mind, he’d hoped. Steve told himself over and over he could go to the hotel, or he could go back to the shop with that illicit back room where other men like him sought out those pictures, he could _do something_ about these feelings. If he’d had the courage to find the pictures, why not find someone who wanted as much, who was as weak as he was? Lies to oneself were the easiest told, and he could tell himself plenty of those.

The punching bag hung in the room, mostly unused, like a scab on a wound that didn’t want to heal. Some nights he didn’t see Bucky at all, other nights his presence weighed the room down, suffocating. Cold nights brought tender memories of what he couldn’t have again, no Bucky behind him on the bed, warmly pressed to his back and heart beating through two rib cages, keeping time together. 

One night Steve woke to the rustle of sheets, a soft wet slapping sound, and realized Bucky was jerking himself off, animal breath panting with anticipation. He could hear everything because the city was being softly covered in snow, the usual clamor muted, narrowed down to Bucky’s skin and breath. Steve had silently rolled over on his back, listening as the motions and breaths sped up faster and faster, his own dick hard and painful with the thrill of it, until Bucky stopped, inhaled sharply. Steve curled up on his side again, his hand on himself, praying Bucky would fall asleep, but he was certain he was listening, alert, until Steve had finished himself off. 

He’d wondered if Bucky had been sending him some kind of message, opening some sort of door for him since words didn’t work. Giving him a key to unlock that box he’d shut his heart in.

It was right back to tension, though, after. Roommates only. One day they brought in a new model for figure drawing class and Steve was galvanized, drawing with more passion than he’d had in ages. The young man looked nothing like Bucky, but there was something about his presence, a similar easy grace and charm, sensuality and ruggedness, that Steve found inspirational. 

He stayed up at night when Bucky was out, listening to the radio and reading or perfecting his sketches, and told himself he wasn’t staying up for Bucky. But one night he woke to Bucky leaning over him, shaking his shoulder gently. He looked tired, worn out, but the old fondness Steve missed so much shone in his blue eyes. 

“That’s no good for your back,” he said, and gathered up the book, the mug Steve had been drinking hot milk out of, and Steve’s sketchbook. At first Steve didn’t think about the pad, as he had most decidedly not been drawing Bucky for a long time, but he followed Bucky’s eyes and really looked at it. A page full of the model from class, who really didn’t look at all like Bucky except as to how he did, right there on the paper in front of him. Four different angles of his face, and they all had that full long line of lip, the thick slope of brow, the long lashes and cleft chin and straight, small nose. 

Bucky closed the book and pushed it aside with the other things, then hauled Steve up to half carry him to the bed. “Time for bed, pal,” Bucky said quietly, and tossed Steve his pajamas. While Steve put them on, Bucky took his clothes off -- he always slept in his undershirt and shorts, even in winter -- and brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face. As Steve pulled the covers up, Bucky knelt down by his bed, his face like the moon, hanging pale above him in the dark. The moon bowed down, pressed lips to Steve’s shoulder, and said as soft as the night sky, “You ain’t got a thing to talk to me about, Steve? Not a thing?”

Steve pushed his fingertips through Bucky’s hair, the way he used to when Bucky took care of him, just like it had been a thousand years ago before he’d wrecked it all. “I don’t know what you think I have to talk about,” was all he could say, the taste of salt in his mouth. “Same old, same old.”

Bucky sighed and got into his own bed, and Steve wiped at his eyes. “G’night, Steve. Don’t stay up so late waiting for me next time, all right? You need your sleep.”

“Sure, Buck.” He rolled over, face to the wall.

 

Steve had hoped to steer clear of Bucky after that, but when he got home the next day, Bucky was there, asleep on the couch, his face pressed into the cushion and his mouth open, snoring loudly. For the first time in ages, Steve smiled upon seeing him. Bucky’s hand dangled down on the floor, and he seemed so vulnerable, relaxed in a way he hadn’t been since the first time he’d spotted those pictures in Steve’s drawer. 

Steve set his bags down and went into the bedroom. On Bucky’s bed he saw scattered papers, which seemed odd, so he stepped closer and realized with a start that they were pictures, photographs this time. He picked one up, hand trembling. A man, naked, lying back on a pillow-covered bed, one leg up and his hand caressing his own upper thigh. Light hair, thin, small, sunken ribcage. Steve’s breath was punched out of him and he dropped the picture as if scalded, carefully picked up the other one -- another thin, almost frail blond man, hand on his cock, a second man kneeling in front of him as if he was bending toward it. Flames brushed at his face and neck, his skin near blistering where he touched the photos.

Was Bucky making fun of him? Was this another way for him to provoke Steve? He couldn’t have been that cruel, not the Bucky he’d loved his whole life.

All of a sudden Bucky was there in the doorway, rubbing at his face, smoothing his hair back. 

“Buck, I--” Steve stammered out, trying to locate words that wouldn’t be found. He dropped the photo on Bucky’s bed as if it was poisonous. “What are you doing?”

“You wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t tell me why you had those pictures. So I had to think of another way to -- to say something to you and hope you’d tell me.” He licked his lips; they gleamed in the low light, wet and enticing. “A picture’s worth a thousand words, right?”

“Where did you get these?”

“Same place you probably got yours. Boy, that must have took a lot of nerve for you, going in there.” He moved toward Steve, stretching his hand out. “I never did mind when I saw them in your drawer, I was just surprised, I didn’t know how to act. But you wouldn’t talk to me about it, let me tell you my side.”

Steve’s legs were too wobbly to keep standing, he sat down hard on Bucky’s bed. His words wouldn’t come out all the way, just air with a little bit of sound behind them. “What side is that?”

“That if you wanted to draw a man like that...if you liked to look at men that way, I would pose for you. I wouldn’t mind if you asked.”

“Is that all you thought I wanted? To look at them, or draw them?”

“I don’t know. I figured it was for your art, but what else could I think? I know those fellas looked like me. So. You tell me what else you’d want them for.” Bucky dropped to his knees in front of Steve, put his hands on Steve’s knees. He was a statue, immobilized by panic, unable to even touch Bucky’s hair. Bucky laid his cheek on the back of Steve’s hand. “Now or never, Steve.” 

He tried to lick his lips, open his stuck-together mouth. “It’s just you I wanted. Not men. Only you. I’d like to sketch you, I would, but that’s not why I got the pictures. You brought that punching bag in and I would watch you and I realized that I was thinking of you a different way and I--”

“And you never thought I could feel the same way? You don’t give me much credit, do you, you dumb punk.” Bucky raised his head, stared up at him with those blue eyes, smiling sadly. “These past few months I just hurt so much, wanted to understand what was wrong and you wouldn’t talk to me.”

“I thought you’d hate me. That you’d leave and I would never see you again just because I couldn’t get myself under control.” Steve put his hands on Bucky’s shoulders at last, and Bucky closed his fingers around Steve’s forearms. “Your friendship means so much more to me and I didn’t want to ruin it. I thought I ruined it all.”

“Well, you’re an idiot.” Bucky dragged his lips along Steve’s knuckles, soft wet warmth. Little hot coils of desire worked their way through his groin up into his belly, the blood beating in his ears.

“I guess I am.”

“You couldn’t see the way I looked at you when I worked the bag? That I wanted you to notice me that way?”

“You could have your pick of any gal in this city. Why would I think you’d want me?”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re the best thing ever happened to me.”

“So you -- are you saying you don’t mind?”

“The only thing I mind is that you couldn’t tell me what you wanted. You can say anything to me, Stevie, _anything_.” Bucky strained up toward him, pressed his mouth to Steve’s, as tender as a whisper. It was everything he’d dreamt of and nothing like it at all.

 _Oh. He didn’t mind._ Bucky didn’t mind at all and he was kissing him and Steve’s worries fell from his shoulders like shrugging off a coat.

Steve had had precisely two kisses in his entire life, and neither of them were like this, succulent and heated and bubbly as Bucky laughed and grunted into his mouth. In between kisses, he sucked in a breath, tried to fill his heart with courage. “Do you remember what they were doing in those pictures?”

“Yeah.” He kissed Steve again, harder this time, pushing his tongue into Steve’s mouth, teasing at Steve’s tongue, sucking on it. The scrape of Bucky’s stubble against his skin was thrilling. Bucky pulled away and clutched Steve’s face. “Would you like to see me that way? The way they posed?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispered, gravelly and low. “Yeah, I want that a lot.” Bucky took the pictures off his bed and set them on the nightstand. He unbuttoned Steve’s shirt, kissing down his throat and chest as he went, Steve forcing himself to breathe in and out so he wouldn’t feel faint. Then Bucky stood and undid his own shirt, took off his trousers and shorts. There was no shame from him, he stared into Steve’s eyes the whole time, and he took Steve’s tentative hand, placed it on his belly just above his hard cock, held it there as he settled down on the bed. 

“If I recall, one of those fellas had his hand like this,” he said, winking, and circled his dick with his hand. 

“Yes, he did,” Steve agreed eagerly, hovering fingertips over Bucky’s throat, feeling the heavy pulse there. He traced down along the hollow above his collarbones, his nipples, the cliff of his rib cage that dropped down to his belly.

Bucky’s deep exhalations gusted over Steve’s cheek as he pressed himself against him, and Bucky wrapped his other hand around the back of Steve’s neck, pulling him in for kisses. His mouth was so lush and wet and slick it made Steve dizzy.

“But they were just drawings. Couldn’t see what else he was gonna do with that hand.” 

“You got some imagination, you can probably figure it out.” Steve nuzzled into the base of Bucky’s throat, and Bucky nearly purred with a low throaty rumble. 

“Or you could help a guy out. Put those pretty little artist’s hands to good use.” He took Steve’s hand and shifted his hips to the side, just enough so Steve could take his cock in hand and Bucky could take hold of Steve’s hot, aching dick. Steve nearly bleated in surprise, then laughed with relief, because it felt so good and he still couldn’t believe this was happening and Bucky didn’t hate him at all. The head of Bucky’s cock was slippery under his hand; Bucky thrust his hips up and down, helping Steve find the rhythm of his pleasure. Steve bent to give him sloppy kisses, trying to control the shudders and twitches in his body but failing miserably, as Bucky worked his cock the way Steve worked his.

Then Bucky spilled over onto his hand and his left thigh pressed up against Bucky’s hip, muttering, “Geez, Stevie, geez,” against his mouth. It was powerful, watching Bucky writhe and pant beneath him. Bucky’s hand had stilled on Steve’s cock and Steve couldn’t stop himself from pushing into his clenched fingers, wanting him to get back to business. Bucky laughed against his chest, the vibration rolling through his ribcage, tickling. “That feel good?” Bucky asked, planting a kiss on Steve’s nipple. “That feel as good as you just made me feel?”

He was teetering on the edge, almost there, when Bucky dragged his tongue over the other nipple and then he came, a shower of sparks behind his eyes, his hips snapping hard against Bucky’s body. 

Bucky held him close, running his fingertips around and around on Steve’s back, like he was writing words. A love letter, Steve thought, or a poem. “You’re never gonna hold back on me again, are you? You’ll always tell me everything from now on?”

“You know it. I’m an idiot sometimes.”

“No argument there.” Bucky kissed his forehead, his nose, his cheek. “You know, that was from only one of the pictures. There’s more where those came from.”

Steve shivered at the possibilities. “They’re reference materials. It’s good for an artist to have references.”

“It’s very educational.” Bucky kissed Steve again, pressed his fingertips to Steve’s lips. “But save your pennies. You got me for reference now.”

“I do, don’t I?” Steve said, and realized it was true.

**Author's Note:**

> I ~~kinda want to~~ _did_ do the 2014, post-Winter Soldier [version of this story!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2440196)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging/liking on [Tumblr](http://teatotally.tumblr.com/post/97996006410/every-picture-tells-a-story-5153-words-by-gwyneth) or drop me a comment, which I will appreciate and adore like crazy!


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